Fic: Dualism
First off, a disclaimer: I swear on a stack of holy books of your choice that I DID NOT KNOW THIS EXISTED until last night. My only explanation... um... Great minds think alike? Its title is "Stranger Things Have Happened" and, er, this is proof? *nervous* Officer, I've never seen this porn before in my life. *bows in confused misery*
Maybe I need some sleep. And to stop listening to Disturbed. And getting weirded out when I think people are going to tell me I stole their fics when I SWEAR TO GOD I DIDN'T.
Now Hollow Ichigo is badgering me to write fic about him. It's all because I have Down With the Sickness stuck in my head. WAAHHHH MAKE IT STOP.
Title: Dualism
Author: ravenclaw42
Fandom: Bleach
Character(s): Ichigo/Ishida, hints of Hollow Ichigo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: They is not mine, they is Kubo’s. Please to not be suing now.
Summary: Ishida finds Ichigo practicing his bankai on the Shiba property one day after their escape from Soul Society. Ichigo’s form is perfect. So why does he seem so restless?
Author's Notes: I originally had a completely different story planned for Dualism and this was going to be a stand-alone fic. But this one demanded my attention more aggressively, and as I was writing, I realized that the content of both ideas was pretty much the same, it was just the setting that was different -- and I liked the imagery of the lake, etc, more than the high school, which is where the other version was set. So I figured that you could conceivably believe that this and Pluralism happened in the same fic-universe, as they’re so far apart, time-wise. Unfortunately it means I lied when I said I wasn’t going to abandon the Kon angle entirely. I’ll just have to revisit the Kon thing in a different story later. But not immediately, because I need to finish The War Prayer, Cry Havoc and And On the Surface, Die before I do anything else. Actually I have four more FMA Greed fics to write for my claim at 7stages before I think about seriously shacking up with a new fandom.
Edit: The computer ate a whole half of this fic at one point, so I had to rewrite it. I don't know if anyone else will be able to see all the problems I do -- I'm too close to the material to be able to tell whether it sucks or not. All I know is that I liked the first version better, and the rewritten parts feel very clunky to me. But I won't point them out, in case it's not as noticable as I think it is. Plus, I was going to do a semi-omake-ish "next morning" thing, same as I did with Pluralism, but I was pretty much so sick up and fed with this story after 10 pages, 5 of which I wrote twice, that I just couldn't force out another word. So, apologies for the sucky ending as well.
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Dualism
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It was late, the dying light staining swaths of grass usually patchy with burns from product-testing a uniform red-gold. Ichigo had gone out hours ago, without a word to anyone. From the feel of the reiatsu that drifed back to the Shiba family house from the spot on the horizon where Ichigo had vanished, however, it wasn’t hard to guess what he was doing.
That reiatsu became steadily more oppressive as Ishida followed its trail, bare feet dragging in the scraggly grass as it became more and more difficult to take each new step. He put an arm instinctively to his face, squinting and holding his breath against the smoke-like density of Ichigo’s raw power. It did no good.
At last, Ishida found Ichigo -- training, as he’d thought, down by the edge of a large lake on the edge of the Shiba property. Just as Ishida got close enough for the fast-moving speck of black on the shore to resolve itself into Ichigo’s lithe form with its shock of orange hair, Ichigo made one more calculated spin and cried out something in a voice that hardly seemed to belong to the same Kurosaki Ichigo Ishida had always known. There was another surge of heightening power and Ishida took a forced step back, tears springing to the corners of his eyes, nose and mouth still buried uselessly in the crook of his arm. His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm. This level of power was painful to be close to. Ishida wondered... he squinted against the bloody evening light refracted off the surface of the water and made out Ichigo’s still form for that timeless moment before he flew back into action.
Yes. The fitted coat and narrow blade were as unmistakable as the intensity of the power that surrounded Ichigo’s form like a heat mirage.
The light on the water made the lake look like it was on fire. These are the elements of his being, Ishida found himself thinking, as Ichigo ran and leapt and pirouetted as neatly as any dancer. Not quite the passion for destruction inherent in fire, not quite the heavy, crushing flow of water. A little of both. He moved like lightning, spat like an angry flame, and his sword was destructive enough, but -- as he got faster, he darkened. Instead of burning bright with the friction of speed, he started trailing shadow behind him as if his power was tapped from some unspeakable depth.
A depth that might better be left untouched. The tattered ends of his coat licked the air in passing and left behind a twisting, a warping, an unreality. Watching him was nauseating.
Where did that power come from? What force within himself was Ichigo drawing on? And how on earth could Ichigo, mellow, laid-back Ichigo whom Ishida had watched from a distance through all their years at the same school, finally uncover his hidden potential only to have it be all centered on cruel speed and brute madness...?
Ishida had to look away. He could still hear Ichigo practicing, though his movements were so superhumanly quick that the sounds followed a split second behind each swing of the blade. And there was a faint after-echo, a sound that may not even have been real -- it might just have been Ishida’s sensitivity to spiritual forces picking up on something that his mind could only translate as a sound. It was a distant scream, the siren screech of a Hollow and the muffled death rattle of drowning lungs and the charcoal-rough shriek of a throat being ripped apart by fire... all at once. And underneath, Ichigo’s shout, oblivious to itself, to the cacophany it orchestrated.
Ishida squeezed his stinging eyes shut. After a few second, the sounds stopped. He didn’t realize how oppressive they’d gotten until they were gone. The reiatsu lowered a moment later as well, like the exhale of some great beast. Ishida let out his breath when he felt the pressure lift, and drew a deep lungful of lighter air.
The power was still there, but dormant now. Ishida opened his eyes and saw Ichigo standing at the edge of the lake, partly turned towards the water so that Ishida couldn’t see his face. His head was bowed, his shoulders heaving. The light made it so that his hair was indistinguishable from the landscape, and for a second Ishida entertained the thought that when the sun finally sank, it would leech the color from Ichigo’s hair and skin as easily as it would from the treetops and the rippling lake.
Slowly, Ishida started walking towards the substitute shinigami again. The transition from grass to sand silenced his already-quiet steps. He was within six feet of Ichigo before the other boy noticed him and spun around -- but not before Ishida had noticed that Ichigo’s labored breathing carried in it the barest hint of a sob.
Reflected yellowish light flashed from Ichigo’s too-bright eyes as he turned, giving the illusion of some inner glow.
Ichigo lowered his head a little and the slight change in angle dropped his eyes into shadow. The sun was behind him, simultaneously silhouetting and haloing his lean figure. “Ishida,” he gasped, still breathing hard, and relaxed his grip on the hilt of his zanpakutoh. Ishida hadn’t even noticed him take hold of the sword, and wondered how close he came to death without knowing it every time he surprised the redhead. Ichigo couldn’t sense reiatsu or even remember faces worth a damn, but he always recognized his friends with an almost frightening degree of focus.
Ishida forgot what he was going to say for a moment, enraptured by the play of contrasts that made up the intense young man before him. But Ichigo was staring at him, waiting for some validation for this meeting, some explanation for Ishida’s presence.
Ishida cleared his throat awkwardly, pushing his glasses up more for the comfort of familiarity than because they were sliding down. “I just came to check on you,” he said. “It’s been three hours. We can feel the reiatsu all the way back at the house. Kuukaku-san was starting to complain.”
Ichigo heaved a short, heavy exhale and planted his sword in the sand in front of him, leaning on it with arms outstretched. He leaned down to wipe his face along his sleeve, getting rid of the worst of the sweat in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said after a second, still looking to the side, not meeting Ishida’s eyes. “I’m pretty much done here anyway.”
“Training?” Ishida asked, eyeing the blade and coat once again. “Seems you don’t need it anymore.”
Ichigo shook his head. “Just practicing.” He plucked the sword up in the blink of an eye and made a couple of expert passes with it, then let his arm drop, dissatisfaction clear in his eyes and the set of his jaw. “I had to know I could release bankai again, outside of a life-or-death fight.”
“It’s dangerous,” Ishida said, watching the play of light on the hilt and guard, and the line where blade began and light ended. The black blade reflected nothing.
Ichigo shrugged. “It’s me.”
Ishida looked up, but Ichigo’s face betrayed nothing. He and the sword were one, it was true.
“Come back to the house,” Ishida said suddenly, without thinking. “Come back and rest. You’re still wounded.”
“Not really,” Ichigo muttered, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back to show that he was fine, until -- “Aah,” he gasped, left hand flying to the left side of his abdomen.
“See?” Ishida asked, but Ichigo shook his head.
“No, it’s just... I felt... like a bite, or...” Ichigo tentatively removed his hand from his side. “Maybe I pulled something,” he said, but his tone said he was just fishing for excuses. He prodded around his waistline again, as if feeling for something.
“Kurosaki...” Ishida said, half concerned, half warning.
“Never mind,” Ichigo interrupted. “Okay. Let’s go back.”
Ishida hesitated, then said, “Your zanpakutoh. Aren’t you going to seal it again?”
Ichigo blinked and looked down at his sword. “Does it really bother everyone that much?” he asked.
“It’s just... overwhelming,” Ishida said, almost apologetically.
“Oh,” said Ichigo. He frowned, twisting the tip of the blade back and forth in the sand. “I’ve, um,” he said, “never actually sealed it. I usually fall unconscious and when I wake up it’s back to normal.”
“Yoruichi-san didn’t show you how to while you were training?”
“There wasn’t time. And Zangetsu did most of the training, anyway. I can’t remember anything after I figured out the release and then we ran at each other...”
“Zangetsu?”
“Oh. Him. The old man in my sword. It’s....” He looked up at Ishida. “Never mind.”
“In your sword?”
“Shut up, I don’t know,” Ichigo muttered, stabbing at the sand again petulantly. Defensiveness. His first reaction to anything he couldn’t explain properly. A small smile tugged at the corners of Ishida’s mouth before he could supress it.
“How do you go from shikai to unrealeased?” Ishida asked, taking another step towards Ichigo.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I ever do.”
“That’s what you said about your reiatsu when that Menos showed up back home, remember?” Ishida stopped right next to Ichigo and reached out a hand tentatively. “May I...?”
Ichigo grunted assent. Ishida braced himself and quickly grasped the hilt of the sword just above Ichigo’s hand. As he’d expected, the sudden surge of power through his system was almost painful in its intensity. He winced, grateful that his face was turned away from Ichigo’s.
“It isn’t hard,” Ishida said, voice strained. “Your natural reaction to your power is to turn it off. You don’t know it, but you’re working more to maintain bankai than you do just to release it. Sealing it is nothing. I do it with my bow all the time. Here.”
Ishida held the sword out in the position he was familiar with, arm straight out as if holding a longbow upright. He instinctively reached for the core of energy in his Quincy cross, and it actually took him a second to remember why it wasn’t there. He froze for a moment, shaken. The angry, agonized part of him that wanted to surface screaming every time he touched that deadness where his power used to be was struggling for freedom, beating against his ribs in time with his heart.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could talk Ichigo through this. He didn’t need to do it for him.
“It’s... a lot like when we did the cannonball,” Ishida said, keeping his tone as collected as possible. “Imagine your power as a sphere. Step into it. But this time, keep going... all the way through. Reach behind you and collapse the sphere as you go. It won’t take as much effort as expanding the sphere, so don’t pull hard.”
Ishida felt more than saw Ichigo nod. They were close enough to brush against each other, Ichigo’s chest against Ishida’s back, and Ishida tried very hard to focus on anything else. “Right,” Ichigo muttered. His hand flexed and tightened on the zanpakutoh’s hilt, and he twisted it slightly to the side, as if turning a key.
Ichigo’s reiatsu all but vanished. Or... no, not really. It was still there, but so enormously reduced that for a second it felt like Ichigo had died. Ishida registered a change in the feel of the hilt under his fingers, and looked down in time to see the traditional katana melting away to be replaced by the zanpakutoh’s more familiar form, which Ishida had always thought looked rather like a giant kitchen knife (although he would never tell Ichigo that, under pain of death). The faint clinking of the broken chain dangling from the end of the hilt was silenced as the chain reformed itself into a fluttering strip of white cloth.
Glancing back, Ishida saw Ichigo’s expression relaxing, eyes closed, brows smoothing as his usual scowl faded away. His lips were parted in some silent command, and he still held the sword out in front of him, as if striking some pose of triumph or meditation. The dying light no longer set the world on fire, but where it still fell on Ichigo it lent shallow shadows to the plain black kimono and hakama he now wore, and softened the angular features of his face. If Ishida had dared, he would have called Ichigo truly peaceful in that moment.
Ishida let his hand fall and stepped away from Ichigo quickly. “There,” he said, voice still strained, but for different reasons this time.
“What?” Ichigo opened his eyes and took in the different shape of the sword he was holding, and the deeper sleeves of his outfit. “That worked?” he said incredulously.
“You’re much better at supressing your power than releasing it,” Ishida said with a shrug. “You just have to know how.”
Ichigo hesitated, then nodded. He offered a small smile of thanks, which Ishida returned.
“Let’s go.” Ishida turned to walk back the way he had come, without waiting for any response from Ichigo. He couldn’t stand to look at the other boy anymore. He hadn’t meant to reach for his own power -- he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten, even for a moment, the sheer magnitude of what he’d lost. Ichigo made him forget. Ishida couldn’t forgive the other boy for that, not until he could forgive himself for being so selfish in the first place.
His grandfather had given him that glove in the hopes that he would do great things -- that he would protect and defend those he loved, and those who deserved life -- that he would work towards peace and cooperation with the shinigami -- that he would mend the wounds of the past and give the line of the Quincy an end it could be proud of. For seven days and nights Ishida had pushed himself beyond any limits he’d ever thought he had, barely eating or sleeping, just living for the light, becoming the light, until it had burned him away from the inside and he’d thought he was going to die, but he’d still kept drawing the bow even when he could feel the glove eating into his arm, drawing energy from his own blood when the energy in the surrounding air became depleted. He’d let his own power eat him alive, and for what? The sheer vanity of strength for strength’s sake? To save Kuchiki Rukia? Of course not, he didn’t care about her like Ichigo did.
To feel worthy of following Ichigo?
Closer to the mark.
He hadn’t even won. He’d fought the man who’d killed his grandfather, he’d lost all the power he’d struggled for, all the power Sensei had entrusted him with, and he hadn’t even won. And deep down he knew that Sensei would be more proud that his grandson hadn’t been able to kill in cold blood than that his own murder had gone unavenged... and that, somehow, made it even worse.
So he couldn’t stand to look at Ichigo. Couldn’t stand to see yet another thing he could never have.
After walking a few yards, he noticed that Ichigo wasn’t following him. He stopped and looked back. Ichigo cut a statuesque figure, a deeper shadow in the dark, looking out over the lake. As they looked on, the water swallowed the last of the light and left the surface of the lake black as ink, and just as impenetrable as it had been when it was ablaze. The moon was barely up, low and huge, just a sliver of its silver curve rising over the tops of the trees, but between its light and the faint beginnings of starlight, Ichigo really did look bleached of color. His hair...
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said, and when he got no response, louder: “Ichigo.”
Ichigo turned. There was no inner light in his eyes, no distance in his expression. Ishida didn’t realize how uneasy he had been until he let himself relax. “Let’s go,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” said Ichigo. “Sure.” He sheathed his sword, insofar as it was actually “sheathed” -- rather he let the white cloth on the handle twine around the blade like a snake, as if it had a life of his own. When he settled it across his back, it stayed there, though Ishida had never been quite sure how it was attached. He figured it was better not to question it.
They walked in silence. When Ishida had come this way before, he’d avoided the patches of burnt grass, remnants of explosives tests and firework launches, but now it was too dark to see where he stepped. He winced every time sharp, ashy grass pricked into the soles of his bare feet.
Ichigo cast him a sideways glance. “Why didn’t you put on shoes before you came out here?” he asked.
Ishida scowled. He hadn’t thought that Ichigo even noticed his small winces or his delicate walk. “What about it?” he asked, psuhing his glasses up as a reflexive defense maneuver. “The grass felt good. It’s not like it’s cold out.” This was true. The weather had been exceptionally mild since the end of their ordeal in Soul Society, and all of them refused to spend more time indoors than was strictly enforced by their respective healers. Kuukaku-san in particular didn’t seem to care where her charges went, as she spent most of her time outdoors anyway.
The silence between them was only alleviated by the sigh of the wind through the coves of trees that dotted the land around them, the rustle and crunch of the short grass under their feet, and the soft hum of night insects coming to life now that the dark had well and truly fallen. Ishida stepped on another prickly patch of grass and hissed involuntarily as one stalk stabbed at his big toe.
“Ishida...” Ichigo said tentatively.
“It’s just grass,” Ishida grumbled, shaking it off and stepping forward as firmly as ever, as if to prove how much he didn’t care.
“It’s not that,” Ichigo said, catching up with Ishida in one easy stride. Damn the other boy’s long legs. “I know I’m no good at sensing spiritual things. That’s your department. But ever since we got back from the Seireitei I can’t help but notice that you’re -- different. I mean, you were different going in, too. Sort of... scalding. Mostly I can tell that that’s gone now, because... because it doesn’t hurt to look at you anymore. Does that make any sense?”
The Quincy light. It was amazing that Ichigo could sense it so strongly, when he usually couldn’t tell a Gotei captain from a hole in the ground. “It was just a power I picked up for the rescue mission,” Ishida said shortly. It was only half-lie.
“Ishida, what happened back there? I felt your reiatsu almost completely die at one point.” Ichigo was looking sideways at him now, but Ishida refused to meet his eyes.
“Same goes for you. More than once.”
Ichigo grunted, waving that statement away. “I’ve already told everyone that I fought Renji and Kenpachi and Byakuya,” he said. “And Chad fought Kyouraku-taichou, and Ganjyu fought Yumichika-san -- that’s not an issue. We’ve talked to those people. They’re not our enemies. But you... you were alone in there for a long time, and no one else knows what happened. No one but you.”
Ishida looked away.
Ichigo’s voice rose in annoyance. “I’m asking you -- Uryuu. As a friend. Whoever you fought -- are they an enemy?”
Ishida tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat when Ichigo called him by his given name, and thought instead... He wanted to know who he could fight. Typical Ichigo. He’d accounted for all of his friends but one -- and it drove him crazy that there was one he didn’t have enough information to protect, as he felt obligated to protect everyone he knew. But Ichigo didn’t know what he was asking, and Ishida gave him nothing to go on, not in his posture, his expression -- and certainly not in words. It was best for everyone if Ichigo kept his hands clean of Ishida’s mess.
“Our only enemies among the Gotei captains are Aizen, Gin and Tousen,” Ishida said after a moment. “Leave it at that, Ichigo. Please. As a friend.”
“You fought a captain?” Ichigo stopped, reached out for Ishida’s arm as if to shake an answer out of him -- but his hand had barely brushed the sleeve of the pale yukata Ishida was wearing before Ishida jerked away, out of his reach. “What? Damn it, Ishida, tell me something!”
“Not every fight is yours, Kurosaki,” Ishida retorted coolly, resisting the urge to smooth his sleeve down over the spot Ichigo had almost touched, to calm the tingling in his nerves there. He turned, kept walking. After a moment, Ichigo followed. He didn’t bother to catch up quickly this time, although at length his longer strides brought him side-by-side with Ishida again.
The outline of the Shiba house was just becoming visible in the distance, lights from the windows and torches around the grounds out front illuminating the horizon with a faint yellow glow, when Ishida stepped on another circle of burnt undergrowth and made a small, angry sound at the back of his throat. He tried to stomp away from it into the softer grass and felt a stone jam into the arch of his foot for his trouble. He stumbled, felt Ichigo catch his arm. His breath stopped for just a second.
Ishida shook Ichigo’s hand off. Ichigo glared at him. “You should’ve put some godddamned shoes on,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Kurosaki,” Ishida grouched, flexing the toes of his smarting foot.
“You want me to carry you, Quincy?” Ichigo’s tone was incendiary, provocative. Ishida bristled, and before he had a chance to stop and regain his composure, he’d taken the bait.
“You couldn’t lift Inoue right now, you half-healed, half-baked --”
“Oh yeah?” Ichigo cut in, overlapping Ishida’s retort with his own. What had been serious tension degraded into petty argument for a few seconds, both of them yelling over each other’s voices, unwilling to stop and listen. Just as Ishida started to realize how stupid they were being and stepped back as if to regroup, he felt Ichigo’s hand on him for a third time -- not on his arm, but his waist, pulling him. Ishida’s nerves scalded at the contact and he tried to jerk away, but all of a sudden the ground fell out from under him --
Because Ichigo had kicked him in the back of the knees and grabbed him as he fell, and now he was in Ichigo’s arms, supported behind the back and thighs, and though he would give anything to be somewhere else, he would give everything to stay right where he was. He gaped for a second, looked up at Ichigo’s face... but all he could see was a pale blur against the night sky.
He quickly fumbled his glasses off the end of his nose and shoved them back on, his disbelief vanishing as quickly as it had frozen him. Anger replaced it, searing, nauseating -- he let his confusion at both Ichigo and himself feed it. He put both hands awkwardly against Ichigo’s chest and pushed, but the leverage wasn’t right. It must have felt like a weak gesture, because Ichigo smirked. “Problems, Ishida?”
Ichigo shifted his weight distribution, hefting Ishida higher in his arms. The movement jolted Ishida’s glasses down again. He pushed them up again and cried “Stop that!” He struggled against the gravity and angle of Ichigo’s arms that would have him lie back and submit. “Put me down right now, you bastard!”
Any more force and his voice would have broken on the last word. His cheeks and neck flushed a fierce red, thankfully invisible in the dark. Finally, against the protests of Ichigo’s bruising grip on his arm, he managed to get enough leverage against Ichigo’s chest to shove one last time, hard, heel of his hand punching into Ichigo’s sternum. Ichigo let out a faint oof of pain and surprise, and dropped Ishida, who barely managed to catch himself with both hands before he hit the grass face-first.
Ishida picked himself up, jerked his yukata straight and stood there, hiding his trembling hands in his sleeves, chest heaving. Ichigo coughed a couple of times, regained his breath, and straightened up to meet his cold anger straight on with a burning frustration of his own.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to carry me!”
“You never said you didn’t, either!”
The crimson stain darkened high on Ishida’s cheeks. “Stop trying to control me, Kurosaki!” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. “You want to protect me, but I never asked for your protection! I have my own battles and I can’t fight them with you in front of me all the time!”
Ichigo finally snapped. “You can’t fight a damned thing, Ishida!” he shouted. “And you’ll never win, never, until you let other people work with you! It’s what you said your sensei wanted, it’s what I thought we’d agreed on, but when is it going to start? Huh? Where’s this mythical trust between shinigami and Quincy? Where’s this mythical friendship we’re supposed to have?”
“You don’t want to fight with me, you want to fight for me!” Ishida shouted back. He could feel his throat threatening to close up and forced the words to keep coming out, angrier and harsher with each passing second as irrationality took over. “If I thought you wanted to help me, I’d let you, but you don’t! You want me to sit back and not get in your way!”
“Dammit, Ishida, that’s not true--”
“Isn’t it? You always want to know where everyone’s been so you can file them away, that’s all! Friendship with you is just process and method and a few jokes here and there until a problem comes up and then it’s just sit down and shut the hell up!”
“What, you think friendship with you is any better, Mister Quincy Pride?” Ichigo’s eyes might have been brighter than usual in the starlight, but Ishida hoped he was just imagining it. “All I ever tried to do was let you in, and I never asked more than the same!”
“I never wanted you to ‘let me in!’ You never asked!” Ishida snapped.
Ichigo made some sound that was beyond anger, beyond frustration. He stared at Ishida for another couple of seconds, then spun on one sandaled heel and started walking away, shoulders high and tense, stride stiff with supressed emotion. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from Ishida as soon as Ichigo’s gaze left him, and immediately, he regretted... everything. His words, but also his selfishness in accepting everything Ichigo had offered him until now, if he’d only meant to push Ichigo away in the end. He’d always told himself he didn’t want or need Ichigo’s help. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want his own tragedy, didn’t want to be the last Quincy, didn’t want the responsibility or the pride or the goddamned power, so --
So he’d lost it all.
Ichigo had slowly insinuated Ishida into his group of friends at school. It had been the first time Ishida had had any real social life outside of the handicrafts club, where he hadn’t really interacted with anyone, anyway. Ichigo had saved his skin more than once by fighting back-to-back with him even when Ishida, like an idiot, had fought it tooth and nail. Ichigo had trusted Ishida without question going into Soul Society, even though Ishida had told him outright that Rukia wasn’t his concern.
Ultimately, Ishida hadn’t rejected any of that help or trust. And now all Ichigo wanted to know was why Ishida had nearly died. Wouldn’t Ishida ask the same of anyone he considered a friend?
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said. He felt his legs carrying him forward but didn’t remember commanding himself to move. Half a dozen fast steps caught him up to the shinigami, and he reached out to grab Ichigo’s arm, just as Ichigo had done to him so often. “Ichigo --”
He’d barely laid a hand on Ichigo’s sleeve before the other boy had turned and was so close, all of a sudden, too close, and there was -- Ichigo’s mouth pressing against his own, rough and quick. Shutting him up or just reacting to the hand on his arm, the given name spoken aloud, the fight and the...
Ishida couldn’t rationalize. He couldn’t think. Ichigo was gone before he had the chance to react with the hunger that had been eating at him for years, ever since he’d first felt Ichigo’s dormant reiatsu back home and started watching him every day -- and now that same Ichigo was moving away, shaking his head at himself, expression a turmoil of anger and hopeless desperation. He shook off Ishida’s hand and turned.
“Don’t you dare,” Ishida said, and grabbed Ichigo again, harder, thin fingers digging for five long bruises. He wanted to mark Ichigo. Wanted to be able to tell tomorrow that tonight had really happened. Ichigo gasped in pain and Ishida pulled him closer, around, until he could crush their mouths together.
Ichigo responded to his hunger in kind, moaning into the kiss. Ishida licked Ichigo’s lips until the other boy got the point and opened his mouth, and somewhere between the wet heat and the battle of tongues, Ishida noticed Ichigo’s hands in his hair, sliding down to cup his face and circle his neck and trace the line of his clavicle down into the V of the yukata, pushing the yukata apart, touching --
Ishida threaded his fingers into Ichigo’s unruly hair and grasped, pulling at the roots lightly, just enough to make Ichigo gasp. Ichigo’s hands were a swordsman’s, rough and worn beyond their sixteen years, but Ishida’s were just as strong. The hands of an archer, slim and deft and anything but brittle. When he wanted something, he took hold and didn’t let go.
He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything more than he wanted Ichigo now.
He worked Ichigo’s kimono open and managed to slide it off of one tan shoulder, but even as he disentangled his hands from Ichigo’s hair and started applying his lips and tongue to that inviting neck and collarbone, he could feel his knees starting to give way under the relentless sensation of Ichigo’s thumbs rubbing firm circles over his nipples. When Ichigo added a hot tongue and light bites along Ishida’s neck, just under his ear, Ishida barely avoided collapsing by pulling Ichigo flush against him instead, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him for all he was worth.
It wasn’t the best plan in the world towards the end of not collapsing, but to all other ends it was heaven. Ishida shuddered when his hardness brushed Ichigo’s thigh, and with a slight shift to the right... something else. Ichigo sucked in a sharp breath and rocked his hips a little to repeat the contact, lips parted but still touching Ishida’s, just barely.
“Gonna carry you again,” Ichigo mumbled against the corner of Ishida’s mouth. His hands slid down Ishida’s back and lingered over his ass, finally settling at the top of Ishida’s thighs. Ishida could feel his erratic heartbeat where their chests pressed together. His words hadn’t been a question, but his hands and heart asked permission where his mouth didn’t.
“Bastard,” Ishida whispered, and bit lightly at Ichigo’s lower lip, drawing him back into a deep kiss. “All right,” he breathed when they broke apart again, shifting his own weight to make Ichigo’s hold easier. “One,” he gasped. “Two.” And with perfect timing, Ishida pushed down on Ichigo’s shoulders just as Ichigo lifted him up. Ishida wrapped his legs around Ichigo’s waist, barely avoiding losing a foot to his zanpakutoh, so that the shinigami could get a better grip and -- God. Ishida barely managed to bite back a cry as his erection ground against Ichigo’s through their clothes. Ichigo muffled a gasped obscenity in the front of Ishida’s yukata, fingers digging into the backs of Ishida’s thighs.
There were trees scattered all over the Shiba property, not quite proper woods, but some areas were more densely forested than others. They were close to a stand of willows, which clustered near the bank of a stream that flowed down from the direction of the house and spread further on into the lake Ichigo had chosen to practice by. Maybe that was how he had found it, Ishida thought deliriously. Following the stream.
Ichigo managed to carry Ishida to the nearest edge of the cove, breathing hard against the base of Ishida’s neck, dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat and tracing the clavicle with tongue and teeth. Ishida tried to shift so that they weren’t pressed quite so unbearably flush against each other, but the movement was electric and Ishida didn’t try it again for fear of Ichigo dropping him. He felt the feathery touches of willow branches ghosting his hair this way and that, and the sound of Ichigo’s footsteps changed as he hit a the covering of first-fallen leaves under the tree.
Ishida’s back hit the trunk a little harder than he would have liked, but Ichigo instantly captured his mouth in an apologetic kiss, and Ishida was just grateful for the use of his hands again now that he didn’t have to hold on for dear life. He fumbled with the obi on Ichigo’s outfit, still kissing him, and thanked the stars above that his knowledge of handicrafts extended to knots. In less than a second the hakama was sliding off and down, and Ishida was working his hands into the kimono, a simpler knot this time, faster, open --
Skin. Ichigo wasn’t wearing anything under the kimono. Ishida shuddered and dropped his mouth down to Ichigo’s neck, marking his chosen spot with a kiss before latching on and sucking. Ichigo hissed and leaned into it. He pushed Ishida up against the tree, gently enough not to scrape his back against the bark, but rough enough to make Ishida break away with a gasp.
“Kurosaki,” he managed.
“Uryuu,” Ichigo breathed. He hastily reached back with one hand, still holding Ishida up with the other, and unslung the braided red cord that held his zanpakutoh on. It had hardly hit the ground with a loud thunk before Ichigo was pushing the front of Ishida’s yukata apart without bothering to untie the obi, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Ishida’s underwear, and... stopping.
He pulled back just enough to see Ishida’s eyes, where the glasses had slipped a little but Ishida wasn’t about to take his hands off of Ichigo to push them back up. Ichigo looked at him for a moment, not quite questioning, not quite admiring, not quite desperate. It took Ishida a moment to place the emotion in Ichigo’s brown eyes.
Respect. Love.
Then Ichigo kissed him again, more slowly than before, and slid his underwear down to his knees. Ishida managed to swallow the sob that threatened to rise, and was grateful for the fact that Ichigo was too close to see the brightness in his eyes before he squeezed them shut.
Ichigo stepped out of the pool of black fabric at his feet and pressed up against Ishida, who pushed his hips forward to meet Ichigo’s. The contact tore gasps out of both of them, and Ichigo let his head fall onto Ishida’s shoulder. Ishida buried his face in Ichigo’s bright hair, breathing deep of the spice, sweat and night-air scent of him. Ichigo rocked in a slow rhythm, letting the friction of skin on skin build until each small movement made Ishida all but sob with need.
“Faster,” he demanded, somewhat muffled as his mouth was occupied with Ichigo’s ear, but clear enough to make Ichigo groan. He complied -- reached between them and took hold of both their cocks, holding them against each other, and thrust harder. Ishida cried out and bucked up into Ichigo’s warm hand.
Ishida let all rational thought go as Ichigo found the right rhythm of strokes and thrusts and each time he pushed forward was harder than the last, shoving Ishida’s back roughly against the tree trunk, but he didn’t care. He was too close now to suggest something else, but next time -- next time, he thought, and Ichigo punctuated it with a thrust as if in promise, oh God, next time -- he wanted Ichigo -- inside him -- wanted --
Too much. Ishida cried out, thumping his head back against the willow and clenching his fists around handfuls of Ichigo’s kimono. The surface tension of the white heat building at the base of his spine broke wide open and he was drowning in the pleasure and coming, hard, over his stomach and Ichigo’s hand, which kept stroking both of them together, milking out the last spasms of Ishida’s release. Ishida could sense Ichigo taking that control and that look of wanton completion on Ishida’s face and drinking it in until, finally, he was stiffening against Ishida and coming, still thrusting haphazardly, muffling Ishida’s broken name over and over against his neck.
And then it was just the two of them, still standing there, and the world hadn’t ended. Ichigo drew long, steadying, open-mouthed breaths against Ishida’s neck, and Ishida closed his eyes and rested his head against Ichigo’s, still quietly reveling in the smell and softness of his hair.
Somehow Ichigo pulled himself away long enough to let them both slide down the tree and onto the carpet of long, thin leaves, which was soft enough for those who didn’t care. The moon was higher and brighter, but the swaying branches of the willow blocked out much of its light, leaving both of them to fill in features and expression from memory when they looked into each other’s faces.
The world may not have ended, but it had certainly changed. Ishida put a hesitant hand to Ichigo’s face, brushing over his sweat-damp cheek and behind one ear, in the familiar tucking movement he used on his own hair, although Ichigo’s was too short for it to make a difference.
“Uryuu,” Ichigo said in a low voice. His brows started to furrow again, his earlier expression fading back into his usual questioning, scowling insecurity. “I...” He stopped, at a loss for words, then shook his head. “How’s your back?” he asked.
“Fine,” Ishida lied, already feeling the scrapes and bruises flowering across his shoulder blades. He cherished the pain for its reality. Otherwise he didn’t know if he could convince himself that he was awake. He touched Ichigo’s forehead, smoothing the drawn brows. “You shouldn’t scowl so much,” he admonished softly.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Ichigo said, and Ishida knew he wasn’t talking about his back.
Ishida couldn’t think of a response to that. Ichigo had hurt him, but mostly only because Ishida let him. If he could go back and do a lot of things over again, Ishida would have chosen not to translate so many of their conversations into pure antagonism. “Why didn’t we do this earlier?” Ishida asked instead, with a small smile.
“Because you were a stubborn bastard,” Ichigo grinned back. “With your Quincy pride so far up your ass --”
Ishida smacked Ichigo on the side of the head, but it didn’t stop either of them from laughing. “You didn’t help,” Ishida retorted, shoving Ichigo again -- not hard, but the other boy fell over anyway, weakened by hysterics. “If you’d stop over-moralizing for two seconds--”
“Shut up!” Ichigo kicked Ishida over so that he fell next to him. He knew Ishida was right, but even as his laughter faded, his smile remained. He let his eyes trail down Ishida’s body and Ishida felt suddenly very conscious of his own semi-nudity.
“I don’t want to go back,” Ichigo said suddenly.
Ishida was confused for a moment. “What -- home?”
“No, just -- well, I don’t know. I miss my family, but I don’t know how to be normal around them anymore.” Ichigo’s smile faded. “I just meant I don’t want to go back to Kuukaku-san’s house. Just for tonight.”
Ishida hesitated, wanting to agree, but... “They’ll wonder where we are.”
“So?” Ichigo looked desperate to break a few rules if it meant not admitting that this moment in time had to end. “We’ll just tell them we slept outside. It’s nice weather. They can’t argue.”
The thought of going to sleep right where he lay was pretty appealing, Ishida had to admit. It was the look on Ichigo’s face that made him cave, though. “All right,” he said.
Ichigo pulled Ishida closer and kissed him, in thanks or just because he wanted to or both, Ishida couldn’t tell. He slid his tongue against Ichigo’s lower lip and into his mouth lazily -- until he felt Ichigo’s hands sliding around his waist and pulled away with a hitched breath of surprise. “Just... getting this off,” Ichigo mumbled, brows drawing down in concentration.
Ishida looked down and saw him fumbling with the knot on his obi. He picked Ichigo’s hands up and moved them away, and deftly untied it himself. “It’s good to know you’re no good at some things,” Ishida taunted softly.
Ichigo snorted and sat up, reaching down to pull Ishida up with him. He pulled Ishida’s forgotten underwear off completely and tossed them and the obi to the side before slipping the yukata over thin shoulders. Ishida shook his arms free the rest of the way and did the same with Ichigo’s kimono.
“Better,” Ichigo murmured, letting his eyes linger on the paper-white scars that stood out against Ishida’s already-pale skin. He leaned in and kissed one on Ishida’s shoulder.
“Ichigo,” Ishida said softly, “why don’t you wear anything under your kimono?”
He felt Ichigo grin against his arm.
Ishida had enough sense to roll up the black and white kimono for a pillow while Ichigo spread his hakama out on the ground. They curled together on top of it, Ishida’s back to Ichigo’s chest and Ichigo’s arms around him. Ichigo reached back behind him and managed to find the yukata with one groping hand, and tossed it over both of them, smoothing it over Ishida’s shoulders before sliding his arm under it again. Ishida couldn’t say anything about the need for direct contact, skin on skin. He laid his own arm over Ichigo’s and curled their fingers together against his stomach.
Ichigo kissed the back of his neck. “You’re never going to answer my question, are you?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“What happened back in Seireitei.”
Ishida sighed and frowned, though Ichigo couldn’t see that. He thought about it, and... no. Now, especially, Ichigo would consider it his duty and obligation to take any metaphorical bullets for Ishida, to not let him fight his own battles. He might make Ichigo see his flaws, but that wasn’t the same as making him change. Ishida didn’t know if he really wanted Ichigo to change, anyway.
“I’ll answer your question when you tell me where the power for your bankai comes from,” he said finally.
Ichigo stiffened behind him.
“Watching you practice -- there was something off. Sometimes when I looked at you I thought I was seeing someone else, just for a second.”
Silence in response.
“Ichigo?”
“Uryuu...” The calm in Ichigo’s voice was forced, and underneath it Ishida could sense the barest hint of fear. For a second, from the hesitation in Ichigo’s voice, Ishida thought a real explanation might be forthcoming -- and if it was, he’d be willing to spill everything about Sensei and the glove and Mayuri-taichou, everything, because Ichigo afraid was never, ever a good thing.
But all Ichigo finally said was, “Fair enough.”
Ishida closed his eyes and let out a controlled breath. Someday he would need to protect Ichigo, and he wouldn’t know how because Ichigo had refused to tell him. And it would be his own fault. Whenever the time came he’d tear himself to shreds over it, he was sure, but... now wasn’t the time. Right now he was tired and sated and Ichigo was warm against him, and he didn’t want to think about tomorrow.
So he squeezed Ichigo’s hand, digging his nails lightly into Ichigo’s palm to tell him that he thought Ichigo was being stupid and that if he weren’t damn tired he’d do something about it, maybe give Ichigo a good yelling-at. Ichigo poked his elbow into Ishida’s side in response, just hard enough to say that he’d fight Ishida tooth and nail on the subject, and besides, he’d have to give Ishida a good yelling-at over his own petty reticence, too. And it might lead to a good all-out fight, added Ichigo’s hand, squeezing Ishida’s hand back a little too hard, or -- Ichigo spread both their hands out flat and slid them down Ishida’s stomach, waist, lower -- it might lead to something else.
Ishida closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Go to sleep, you horny bastard,” he muttered.
“Fair enough,” Ichigo repeated, shifting to get his other arm bent properly under his head and settling down more comfortably.
“If you kick me,” Ishida mumbled, already drifting off, “I kick back.”
“Just try it,” Ichigo retorted softly, but from the feel of his breathing and his slowing heartbeat, Ishida was already asleep.
Ichigo lay awake for a long time after that, watching Ishida through half-lidded eyes. Finally, with his hand pressed over Ishida’s heart, matching the other boy’s slow breaths, he managed to find better rest that hed’d had in weeks.
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Maybe I need some sleep. And to stop listening to Disturbed. And getting weirded out when I think people are going to tell me I stole their fics when I SWEAR TO GOD I DIDN'T.
Now Hollow Ichigo is badgering me to write fic about him. It's all because I have Down With the Sickness stuck in my head. WAAHHHH MAKE IT STOP.
Title: Dualism
Author: ravenclaw42
Fandom: Bleach
Character(s): Ichigo/Ishida, hints of Hollow Ichigo
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: They is not mine, they is Kubo’s. Please to not be suing now.
Summary: Ishida finds Ichigo practicing his bankai on the Shiba property one day after their escape from Soul Society. Ichigo’s form is perfect. So why does he seem so restless?
Author's Notes: I originally had a completely different story planned for Dualism and this was going to be a stand-alone fic. But this one demanded my attention more aggressively, and as I was writing, I realized that the content of both ideas was pretty much the same, it was just the setting that was different -- and I liked the imagery of the lake, etc, more than the high school, which is where the other version was set. So I figured that you could conceivably believe that this and Pluralism happened in the same fic-universe, as they’re so far apart, time-wise. Unfortunately it means I lied when I said I wasn’t going to abandon the Kon angle entirely. I’ll just have to revisit the Kon thing in a different story later. But not immediately, because I need to finish The War Prayer, Cry Havoc and And On the Surface, Die before I do anything else. Actually I have four more FMA Greed fics to write for my claim at 7stages before I think about seriously shacking up with a new fandom.
Edit: The computer ate a whole half of this fic at one point, so I had to rewrite it. I don't know if anyone else will be able to see all the problems I do -- I'm too close to the material to be able to tell whether it sucks or not. All I know is that I liked the first version better, and the rewritten parts feel very clunky to me. But I won't point them out, in case it's not as noticable as I think it is. Plus, I was going to do a semi-omake-ish "next morning" thing, same as I did with Pluralism, but I was pretty much so sick up and fed with this story after 10 pages, 5 of which I wrote twice, that I just couldn't force out another word. So, apologies for the sucky ending as well.
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Dualism
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It was late, the dying light staining swaths of grass usually patchy with burns from product-testing a uniform red-gold. Ichigo had gone out hours ago, without a word to anyone. From the feel of the reiatsu that drifed back to the Shiba family house from the spot on the horizon where Ichigo had vanished, however, it wasn’t hard to guess what he was doing.
That reiatsu became steadily more oppressive as Ishida followed its trail, bare feet dragging in the scraggly grass as it became more and more difficult to take each new step. He put an arm instinctively to his face, squinting and holding his breath against the smoke-like density of Ichigo’s raw power. It did no good.
At last, Ishida found Ichigo -- training, as he’d thought, down by the edge of a large lake on the edge of the Shiba property. Just as Ishida got close enough for the fast-moving speck of black on the shore to resolve itself into Ichigo’s lithe form with its shock of orange hair, Ichigo made one more calculated spin and cried out something in a voice that hardly seemed to belong to the same Kurosaki Ichigo Ishida had always known. There was another surge of heightening power and Ishida took a forced step back, tears springing to the corners of his eyes, nose and mouth still buried uselessly in the crook of his arm. His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm. This level of power was painful to be close to. Ishida wondered... he squinted against the bloody evening light refracted off the surface of the water and made out Ichigo’s still form for that timeless moment before he flew back into action.
Yes. The fitted coat and narrow blade were as unmistakable as the intensity of the power that surrounded Ichigo’s form like a heat mirage.
The light on the water made the lake look like it was on fire. These are the elements of his being, Ishida found himself thinking, as Ichigo ran and leapt and pirouetted as neatly as any dancer. Not quite the passion for destruction inherent in fire, not quite the heavy, crushing flow of water. A little of both. He moved like lightning, spat like an angry flame, and his sword was destructive enough, but -- as he got faster, he darkened. Instead of burning bright with the friction of speed, he started trailing shadow behind him as if his power was tapped from some unspeakable depth.
A depth that might better be left untouched. The tattered ends of his coat licked the air in passing and left behind a twisting, a warping, an unreality. Watching him was nauseating.
Where did that power come from? What force within himself was Ichigo drawing on? And how on earth could Ichigo, mellow, laid-back Ichigo whom Ishida had watched from a distance through all their years at the same school, finally uncover his hidden potential only to have it be all centered on cruel speed and brute madness...?
Ishida had to look away. He could still hear Ichigo practicing, though his movements were so superhumanly quick that the sounds followed a split second behind each swing of the blade. And there was a faint after-echo, a sound that may not even have been real -- it might just have been Ishida’s sensitivity to spiritual forces picking up on something that his mind could only translate as a sound. It was a distant scream, the siren screech of a Hollow and the muffled death rattle of drowning lungs and the charcoal-rough shriek of a throat being ripped apart by fire... all at once. And underneath, Ichigo’s shout, oblivious to itself, to the cacophany it orchestrated.
Ishida squeezed his stinging eyes shut. After a few second, the sounds stopped. He didn’t realize how oppressive they’d gotten until they were gone. The reiatsu lowered a moment later as well, like the exhale of some great beast. Ishida let out his breath when he felt the pressure lift, and drew a deep lungful of lighter air.
The power was still there, but dormant now. Ishida opened his eyes and saw Ichigo standing at the edge of the lake, partly turned towards the water so that Ishida couldn’t see his face. His head was bowed, his shoulders heaving. The light made it so that his hair was indistinguishable from the landscape, and for a second Ishida entertained the thought that when the sun finally sank, it would leech the color from Ichigo’s hair and skin as easily as it would from the treetops and the rippling lake.
Slowly, Ishida started walking towards the substitute shinigami again. The transition from grass to sand silenced his already-quiet steps. He was within six feet of Ichigo before the other boy noticed him and spun around -- but not before Ishida had noticed that Ichigo’s labored breathing carried in it the barest hint of a sob.
Reflected yellowish light flashed from Ichigo’s too-bright eyes as he turned, giving the illusion of some inner glow.
Ichigo lowered his head a little and the slight change in angle dropped his eyes into shadow. The sun was behind him, simultaneously silhouetting and haloing his lean figure. “Ishida,” he gasped, still breathing hard, and relaxed his grip on the hilt of his zanpakutoh. Ishida hadn’t even noticed him take hold of the sword, and wondered how close he came to death without knowing it every time he surprised the redhead. Ichigo couldn’t sense reiatsu or even remember faces worth a damn, but he always recognized his friends with an almost frightening degree of focus.
Ishida forgot what he was going to say for a moment, enraptured by the play of contrasts that made up the intense young man before him. But Ichigo was staring at him, waiting for some validation for this meeting, some explanation for Ishida’s presence.
Ishida cleared his throat awkwardly, pushing his glasses up more for the comfort of familiarity than because they were sliding down. “I just came to check on you,” he said. “It’s been three hours. We can feel the reiatsu all the way back at the house. Kuukaku-san was starting to complain.”
Ichigo heaved a short, heavy exhale and planted his sword in the sand in front of him, leaning on it with arms outstretched. He leaned down to wipe his face along his sleeve, getting rid of the worst of the sweat in his eyes. “Sorry,” he said after a second, still looking to the side, not meeting Ishida’s eyes. “I’m pretty much done here anyway.”
“Training?” Ishida asked, eyeing the blade and coat once again. “Seems you don’t need it anymore.”
Ichigo shook his head. “Just practicing.” He plucked the sword up in the blink of an eye and made a couple of expert passes with it, then let his arm drop, dissatisfaction clear in his eyes and the set of his jaw. “I had to know I could release bankai again, outside of a life-or-death fight.”
“It’s dangerous,” Ishida said, watching the play of light on the hilt and guard, and the line where blade began and light ended. The black blade reflected nothing.
Ichigo shrugged. “It’s me.”
Ishida looked up, but Ichigo’s face betrayed nothing. He and the sword were one, it was true.
“Come back to the house,” Ishida said suddenly, without thinking. “Come back and rest. You’re still wounded.”
“Not really,” Ichigo muttered, rolling his shoulders and stretching his back to show that he was fine, until -- “Aah,” he gasped, left hand flying to the left side of his abdomen.
“See?” Ishida asked, but Ichigo shook his head.
“No, it’s just... I felt... like a bite, or...” Ichigo tentatively removed his hand from his side. “Maybe I pulled something,” he said, but his tone said he was just fishing for excuses. He prodded around his waistline again, as if feeling for something.
“Kurosaki...” Ishida said, half concerned, half warning.
“Never mind,” Ichigo interrupted. “Okay. Let’s go back.”
Ishida hesitated, then said, “Your zanpakutoh. Aren’t you going to seal it again?”
Ichigo blinked and looked down at his sword. “Does it really bother everyone that much?” he asked.
“It’s just... overwhelming,” Ishida said, almost apologetically.
“Oh,” said Ichigo. He frowned, twisting the tip of the blade back and forth in the sand. “I’ve, um,” he said, “never actually sealed it. I usually fall unconscious and when I wake up it’s back to normal.”
“Yoruichi-san didn’t show you how to while you were training?”
“There wasn’t time. And Zangetsu did most of the training, anyway. I can’t remember anything after I figured out the release and then we ran at each other...”
“Zangetsu?”
“Oh. Him. The old man in my sword. It’s....” He looked up at Ishida. “Never mind.”
“In your sword?”
“Shut up, I don’t know,” Ichigo muttered, stabbing at the sand again petulantly. Defensiveness. His first reaction to anything he couldn’t explain properly. A small smile tugged at the corners of Ishida’s mouth before he could supress it.
“How do you go from shikai to unrealeased?” Ishida asked, taking another step towards Ichigo.
“I don’t know. I don’t think I ever do.”
“That’s what you said about your reiatsu when that Menos showed up back home, remember?” Ishida stopped right next to Ichigo and reached out a hand tentatively. “May I...?”
Ichigo grunted assent. Ishida braced himself and quickly grasped the hilt of the sword just above Ichigo’s hand. As he’d expected, the sudden surge of power through his system was almost painful in its intensity. He winced, grateful that his face was turned away from Ichigo’s.
“It isn’t hard,” Ishida said, voice strained. “Your natural reaction to your power is to turn it off. You don’t know it, but you’re working more to maintain bankai than you do just to release it. Sealing it is nothing. I do it with my bow all the time. Here.”
Ishida held the sword out in the position he was familiar with, arm straight out as if holding a longbow upright. He instinctively reached for the core of energy in his Quincy cross, and it actually took him a second to remember why it wasn’t there. He froze for a moment, shaken. The angry, agonized part of him that wanted to surface screaming every time he touched that deadness where his power used to be was struggling for freedom, beating against his ribs in time with his heart.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could talk Ichigo through this. He didn’t need to do it for him.
“It’s... a lot like when we did the cannonball,” Ishida said, keeping his tone as collected as possible. “Imagine your power as a sphere. Step into it. But this time, keep going... all the way through. Reach behind you and collapse the sphere as you go. It won’t take as much effort as expanding the sphere, so don’t pull hard.”
Ishida felt more than saw Ichigo nod. They were close enough to brush against each other, Ichigo’s chest against Ishida’s back, and Ishida tried very hard to focus on anything else. “Right,” Ichigo muttered. His hand flexed and tightened on the zanpakutoh’s hilt, and he twisted it slightly to the side, as if turning a key.
Ichigo’s reiatsu all but vanished. Or... no, not really. It was still there, but so enormously reduced that for a second it felt like Ichigo had died. Ishida registered a change in the feel of the hilt under his fingers, and looked down in time to see the traditional katana melting away to be replaced by the zanpakutoh’s more familiar form, which Ishida had always thought looked rather like a giant kitchen knife (although he would never tell Ichigo that, under pain of death). The faint clinking of the broken chain dangling from the end of the hilt was silenced as the chain reformed itself into a fluttering strip of white cloth.
Glancing back, Ishida saw Ichigo’s expression relaxing, eyes closed, brows smoothing as his usual scowl faded away. His lips were parted in some silent command, and he still held the sword out in front of him, as if striking some pose of triumph or meditation. The dying light no longer set the world on fire, but where it still fell on Ichigo it lent shallow shadows to the plain black kimono and hakama he now wore, and softened the angular features of his face. If Ishida had dared, he would have called Ichigo truly peaceful in that moment.
Ishida let his hand fall and stepped away from Ichigo quickly. “There,” he said, voice still strained, but for different reasons this time.
“What?” Ichigo opened his eyes and took in the different shape of the sword he was holding, and the deeper sleeves of his outfit. “That worked?” he said incredulously.
“You’re much better at supressing your power than releasing it,” Ishida said with a shrug. “You just have to know how.”
Ichigo hesitated, then nodded. He offered a small smile of thanks, which Ishida returned.
“Let’s go.” Ishida turned to walk back the way he had come, without waiting for any response from Ichigo. He couldn’t stand to look at the other boy anymore. He hadn’t meant to reach for his own power -- he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten, even for a moment, the sheer magnitude of what he’d lost. Ichigo made him forget. Ishida couldn’t forgive the other boy for that, not until he could forgive himself for being so selfish in the first place.
His grandfather had given him that glove in the hopes that he would do great things -- that he would protect and defend those he loved, and those who deserved life -- that he would work towards peace and cooperation with the shinigami -- that he would mend the wounds of the past and give the line of the Quincy an end it could be proud of. For seven days and nights Ishida had pushed himself beyond any limits he’d ever thought he had, barely eating or sleeping, just living for the light, becoming the light, until it had burned him away from the inside and he’d thought he was going to die, but he’d still kept drawing the bow even when he could feel the glove eating into his arm, drawing energy from his own blood when the energy in the surrounding air became depleted. He’d let his own power eat him alive, and for what? The sheer vanity of strength for strength’s sake? To save Kuchiki Rukia? Of course not, he didn’t care about her like Ichigo did.
To feel worthy of following Ichigo?
Closer to the mark.
He hadn’t even won. He’d fought the man who’d killed his grandfather, he’d lost all the power he’d struggled for, all the power Sensei had entrusted him with, and he hadn’t even won. And deep down he knew that Sensei would be more proud that his grandson hadn’t been able to kill in cold blood than that his own murder had gone unavenged... and that, somehow, made it even worse.
So he couldn’t stand to look at Ichigo. Couldn’t stand to see yet another thing he could never have.
After walking a few yards, he noticed that Ichigo wasn’t following him. He stopped and looked back. Ichigo cut a statuesque figure, a deeper shadow in the dark, looking out over the lake. As they looked on, the water swallowed the last of the light and left the surface of the lake black as ink, and just as impenetrable as it had been when it was ablaze. The moon was barely up, low and huge, just a sliver of its silver curve rising over the tops of the trees, but between its light and the faint beginnings of starlight, Ichigo really did look bleached of color. His hair...
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said, and when he got no response, louder: “Ichigo.”
Ichigo turned. There was no inner light in his eyes, no distance in his expression. Ishida didn’t realize how uneasy he had been until he let himself relax. “Let’s go,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” said Ichigo. “Sure.” He sheathed his sword, insofar as it was actually “sheathed” -- rather he let the white cloth on the handle twine around the blade like a snake, as if it had a life of his own. When he settled it across his back, it stayed there, though Ishida had never been quite sure how it was attached. He figured it was better not to question it.
They walked in silence. When Ishida had come this way before, he’d avoided the patches of burnt grass, remnants of explosives tests and firework launches, but now it was too dark to see where he stepped. He winced every time sharp, ashy grass pricked into the soles of his bare feet.
Ichigo cast him a sideways glance. “Why didn’t you put on shoes before you came out here?” he asked.
Ishida scowled. He hadn’t thought that Ichigo even noticed his small winces or his delicate walk. “What about it?” he asked, psuhing his glasses up as a reflexive defense maneuver. “The grass felt good. It’s not like it’s cold out.” This was true. The weather had been exceptionally mild since the end of their ordeal in Soul Society, and all of them refused to spend more time indoors than was strictly enforced by their respective healers. Kuukaku-san in particular didn’t seem to care where her charges went, as she spent most of her time outdoors anyway.
The silence between them was only alleviated by the sigh of the wind through the coves of trees that dotted the land around them, the rustle and crunch of the short grass under their feet, and the soft hum of night insects coming to life now that the dark had well and truly fallen. Ishida stepped on another prickly patch of grass and hissed involuntarily as one stalk stabbed at his big toe.
“Ishida...” Ichigo said tentatively.
“It’s just grass,” Ishida grumbled, shaking it off and stepping forward as firmly as ever, as if to prove how much he didn’t care.
“It’s not that,” Ichigo said, catching up with Ishida in one easy stride. Damn the other boy’s long legs. “I know I’m no good at sensing spiritual things. That’s your department. But ever since we got back from the Seireitei I can’t help but notice that you’re -- different. I mean, you were different going in, too. Sort of... scalding. Mostly I can tell that that’s gone now, because... because it doesn’t hurt to look at you anymore. Does that make any sense?”
The Quincy light. It was amazing that Ichigo could sense it so strongly, when he usually couldn’t tell a Gotei captain from a hole in the ground. “It was just a power I picked up for the rescue mission,” Ishida said shortly. It was only half-lie.
“Ishida, what happened back there? I felt your reiatsu almost completely die at one point.” Ichigo was looking sideways at him now, but Ishida refused to meet his eyes.
“Same goes for you. More than once.”
Ichigo grunted, waving that statement away. “I’ve already told everyone that I fought Renji and Kenpachi and Byakuya,” he said. “And Chad fought Kyouraku-taichou, and Ganjyu fought Yumichika-san -- that’s not an issue. We’ve talked to those people. They’re not our enemies. But you... you were alone in there for a long time, and no one else knows what happened. No one but you.”
Ishida looked away.
Ichigo’s voice rose in annoyance. “I’m asking you -- Uryuu. As a friend. Whoever you fought -- are they an enemy?”
Ishida tried to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat when Ichigo called him by his given name, and thought instead... He wanted to know who he could fight. Typical Ichigo. He’d accounted for all of his friends but one -- and it drove him crazy that there was one he didn’t have enough information to protect, as he felt obligated to protect everyone he knew. But Ichigo didn’t know what he was asking, and Ishida gave him nothing to go on, not in his posture, his expression -- and certainly not in words. It was best for everyone if Ichigo kept his hands clean of Ishida’s mess.
“Our only enemies among the Gotei captains are Aizen, Gin and Tousen,” Ishida said after a moment. “Leave it at that, Ichigo. Please. As a friend.”
“You fought a captain?” Ichigo stopped, reached out for Ishida’s arm as if to shake an answer out of him -- but his hand had barely brushed the sleeve of the pale yukata Ishida was wearing before Ishida jerked away, out of his reach. “What? Damn it, Ishida, tell me something!”
“Not every fight is yours, Kurosaki,” Ishida retorted coolly, resisting the urge to smooth his sleeve down over the spot Ichigo had almost touched, to calm the tingling in his nerves there. He turned, kept walking. After a moment, Ichigo followed. He didn’t bother to catch up quickly this time, although at length his longer strides brought him side-by-side with Ishida again.
The outline of the Shiba house was just becoming visible in the distance, lights from the windows and torches around the grounds out front illuminating the horizon with a faint yellow glow, when Ishida stepped on another circle of burnt undergrowth and made a small, angry sound at the back of his throat. He tried to stomp away from it into the softer grass and felt a stone jam into the arch of his foot for his trouble. He stumbled, felt Ichigo catch his arm. His breath stopped for just a second.
Ishida shook Ichigo’s hand off. Ichigo glared at him. “You should’ve put some godddamned shoes on,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, Kurosaki,” Ishida grouched, flexing the toes of his smarting foot.
“You want me to carry you, Quincy?” Ichigo’s tone was incendiary, provocative. Ishida bristled, and before he had a chance to stop and regain his composure, he’d taken the bait.
“You couldn’t lift Inoue right now, you half-healed, half-baked --”
“Oh yeah?” Ichigo cut in, overlapping Ishida’s retort with his own. What had been serious tension degraded into petty argument for a few seconds, both of them yelling over each other’s voices, unwilling to stop and listen. Just as Ishida started to realize how stupid they were being and stepped back as if to regroup, he felt Ichigo’s hand on him for a third time -- not on his arm, but his waist, pulling him. Ishida’s nerves scalded at the contact and he tried to jerk away, but all of a sudden the ground fell out from under him --
Because Ichigo had kicked him in the back of the knees and grabbed him as he fell, and now he was in Ichigo’s arms, supported behind the back and thighs, and though he would give anything to be somewhere else, he would give everything to stay right where he was. He gaped for a second, looked up at Ichigo’s face... but all he could see was a pale blur against the night sky.
He quickly fumbled his glasses off the end of his nose and shoved them back on, his disbelief vanishing as quickly as it had frozen him. Anger replaced it, searing, nauseating -- he let his confusion at both Ichigo and himself feed it. He put both hands awkwardly against Ichigo’s chest and pushed, but the leverage wasn’t right. It must have felt like a weak gesture, because Ichigo smirked. “Problems, Ishida?”
Ichigo shifted his weight distribution, hefting Ishida higher in his arms. The movement jolted Ishida’s glasses down again. He pushed them up again and cried “Stop that!” He struggled against the gravity and angle of Ichigo’s arms that would have him lie back and submit. “Put me down right now, you bastard!”
Any more force and his voice would have broken on the last word. His cheeks and neck flushed a fierce red, thankfully invisible in the dark. Finally, against the protests of Ichigo’s bruising grip on his arm, he managed to get enough leverage against Ichigo’s chest to shove one last time, hard, heel of his hand punching into Ichigo’s sternum. Ichigo let out a faint oof of pain and surprise, and dropped Ishida, who barely managed to catch himself with both hands before he hit the grass face-first.
Ishida picked himself up, jerked his yukata straight and stood there, hiding his trembling hands in his sleeves, chest heaving. Ichigo coughed a couple of times, regained his breath, and straightened up to meet his cold anger straight on with a burning frustration of his own.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to carry me!”
“You never said you didn’t, either!”
The crimson stain darkened high on Ishida’s cheeks. “Stop trying to control me, Kurosaki!” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. “You want to protect me, but I never asked for your protection! I have my own battles and I can’t fight them with you in front of me all the time!”
Ichigo finally snapped. “You can’t fight a damned thing, Ishida!” he shouted. “And you’ll never win, never, until you let other people work with you! It’s what you said your sensei wanted, it’s what I thought we’d agreed on, but when is it going to start? Huh? Where’s this mythical trust between shinigami and Quincy? Where’s this mythical friendship we’re supposed to have?”
“You don’t want to fight with me, you want to fight for me!” Ishida shouted back. He could feel his throat threatening to close up and forced the words to keep coming out, angrier and harsher with each passing second as irrationality took over. “If I thought you wanted to help me, I’d let you, but you don’t! You want me to sit back and not get in your way!”
“Dammit, Ishida, that’s not true--”
“Isn’t it? You always want to know where everyone’s been so you can file them away, that’s all! Friendship with you is just process and method and a few jokes here and there until a problem comes up and then it’s just sit down and shut the hell up!”
“What, you think friendship with you is any better, Mister Quincy Pride?” Ichigo’s eyes might have been brighter than usual in the starlight, but Ishida hoped he was just imagining it. “All I ever tried to do was let you in, and I never asked more than the same!”
“I never wanted you to ‘let me in!’ You never asked!” Ishida snapped.
Ichigo made some sound that was beyond anger, beyond frustration. He stared at Ishida for another couple of seconds, then spun on one sandaled heel and started walking away, shoulders high and tense, stride stiff with supressed emotion. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from Ishida as soon as Ichigo’s gaze left him, and immediately, he regretted... everything. His words, but also his selfishness in accepting everything Ichigo had offered him until now, if he’d only meant to push Ichigo away in the end. He’d always told himself he didn’t want or need Ichigo’s help. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want his own tragedy, didn’t want to be the last Quincy, didn’t want the responsibility or the pride or the goddamned power, so --
So he’d lost it all.
Ichigo had slowly insinuated Ishida into his group of friends at school. It had been the first time Ishida had had any real social life outside of the handicrafts club, where he hadn’t really interacted with anyone, anyway. Ichigo had saved his skin more than once by fighting back-to-back with him even when Ishida, like an idiot, had fought it tooth and nail. Ichigo had trusted Ishida without question going into Soul Society, even though Ishida had told him outright that Rukia wasn’t his concern.
Ultimately, Ishida hadn’t rejected any of that help or trust. And now all Ichigo wanted to know was why Ishida had nearly died. Wouldn’t Ishida ask the same of anyone he considered a friend?
“Kurosaki,” Ishida said. He felt his legs carrying him forward but didn’t remember commanding himself to move. Half a dozen fast steps caught him up to the shinigami, and he reached out to grab Ichigo’s arm, just as Ichigo had done to him so often. “Ichigo --”
He’d barely laid a hand on Ichigo’s sleeve before the other boy had turned and was so close, all of a sudden, too close, and there was -- Ichigo’s mouth pressing against his own, rough and quick. Shutting him up or just reacting to the hand on his arm, the given name spoken aloud, the fight and the...
Ishida couldn’t rationalize. He couldn’t think. Ichigo was gone before he had the chance to react with the hunger that had been eating at him for years, ever since he’d first felt Ichigo’s dormant reiatsu back home and started watching him every day -- and now that same Ichigo was moving away, shaking his head at himself, expression a turmoil of anger and hopeless desperation. He shook off Ishida’s hand and turned.
“Don’t you dare,” Ishida said, and grabbed Ichigo again, harder, thin fingers digging for five long bruises. He wanted to mark Ichigo. Wanted to be able to tell tomorrow that tonight had really happened. Ichigo gasped in pain and Ishida pulled him closer, around, until he could crush their mouths together.
Ichigo responded to his hunger in kind, moaning into the kiss. Ishida licked Ichigo’s lips until the other boy got the point and opened his mouth, and somewhere between the wet heat and the battle of tongues, Ishida noticed Ichigo’s hands in his hair, sliding down to cup his face and circle his neck and trace the line of his clavicle down into the V of the yukata, pushing the yukata apart, touching --
Ishida threaded his fingers into Ichigo’s unruly hair and grasped, pulling at the roots lightly, just enough to make Ichigo gasp. Ichigo’s hands were a swordsman’s, rough and worn beyond their sixteen years, but Ishida’s were just as strong. The hands of an archer, slim and deft and anything but brittle. When he wanted something, he took hold and didn’t let go.
He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything more than he wanted Ichigo now.
He worked Ichigo’s kimono open and managed to slide it off of one tan shoulder, but even as he disentangled his hands from Ichigo’s hair and started applying his lips and tongue to that inviting neck and collarbone, he could feel his knees starting to give way under the relentless sensation of Ichigo’s thumbs rubbing firm circles over his nipples. When Ichigo added a hot tongue and light bites along Ishida’s neck, just under his ear, Ishida barely avoided collapsing by pulling Ichigo flush against him instead, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him for all he was worth.
It wasn’t the best plan in the world towards the end of not collapsing, but to all other ends it was heaven. Ishida shuddered when his hardness brushed Ichigo’s thigh, and with a slight shift to the right... something else. Ichigo sucked in a sharp breath and rocked his hips a little to repeat the contact, lips parted but still touching Ishida’s, just barely.
“Gonna carry you again,” Ichigo mumbled against the corner of Ishida’s mouth. His hands slid down Ishida’s back and lingered over his ass, finally settling at the top of Ishida’s thighs. Ishida could feel his erratic heartbeat where their chests pressed together. His words hadn’t been a question, but his hands and heart asked permission where his mouth didn’t.
“Bastard,” Ishida whispered, and bit lightly at Ichigo’s lower lip, drawing him back into a deep kiss. “All right,” he breathed when they broke apart again, shifting his own weight to make Ichigo’s hold easier. “One,” he gasped. “Two.” And with perfect timing, Ishida pushed down on Ichigo’s shoulders just as Ichigo lifted him up. Ishida wrapped his legs around Ichigo’s waist, barely avoiding losing a foot to his zanpakutoh, so that the shinigami could get a better grip and -- God. Ishida barely managed to bite back a cry as his erection ground against Ichigo’s through their clothes. Ichigo muffled a gasped obscenity in the front of Ishida’s yukata, fingers digging into the backs of Ishida’s thighs.
There were trees scattered all over the Shiba property, not quite proper woods, but some areas were more densely forested than others. They were close to a stand of willows, which clustered near the bank of a stream that flowed down from the direction of the house and spread further on into the lake Ichigo had chosen to practice by. Maybe that was how he had found it, Ishida thought deliriously. Following the stream.
Ichigo managed to carry Ishida to the nearest edge of the cove, breathing hard against the base of Ishida’s neck, dipping his tongue into the hollow of his throat and tracing the clavicle with tongue and teeth. Ishida tried to shift so that they weren’t pressed quite so unbearably flush against each other, but the movement was electric and Ishida didn’t try it again for fear of Ichigo dropping him. He felt the feathery touches of willow branches ghosting his hair this way and that, and the sound of Ichigo’s footsteps changed as he hit a the covering of first-fallen leaves under the tree.
Ishida’s back hit the trunk a little harder than he would have liked, but Ichigo instantly captured his mouth in an apologetic kiss, and Ishida was just grateful for the use of his hands again now that he didn’t have to hold on for dear life. He fumbled with the obi on Ichigo’s outfit, still kissing him, and thanked the stars above that his knowledge of handicrafts extended to knots. In less than a second the hakama was sliding off and down, and Ishida was working his hands into the kimono, a simpler knot this time, faster, open --
Skin. Ichigo wasn’t wearing anything under the kimono. Ishida shuddered and dropped his mouth down to Ichigo’s neck, marking his chosen spot with a kiss before latching on and sucking. Ichigo hissed and leaned into it. He pushed Ishida up against the tree, gently enough not to scrape his back against the bark, but rough enough to make Ishida break away with a gasp.
“Kurosaki,” he managed.
“Uryuu,” Ichigo breathed. He hastily reached back with one hand, still holding Ishida up with the other, and unslung the braided red cord that held his zanpakutoh on. It had hardly hit the ground with a loud thunk before Ichigo was pushing the front of Ishida’s yukata apart without bothering to untie the obi, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Ishida’s underwear, and... stopping.
He pulled back just enough to see Ishida’s eyes, where the glasses had slipped a little but Ishida wasn’t about to take his hands off of Ichigo to push them back up. Ichigo looked at him for a moment, not quite questioning, not quite admiring, not quite desperate. It took Ishida a moment to place the emotion in Ichigo’s brown eyes.
Respect. Love.
Then Ichigo kissed him again, more slowly than before, and slid his underwear down to his knees. Ishida managed to swallow the sob that threatened to rise, and was grateful for the fact that Ichigo was too close to see the brightness in his eyes before he squeezed them shut.
Ichigo stepped out of the pool of black fabric at his feet and pressed up against Ishida, who pushed his hips forward to meet Ichigo’s. The contact tore gasps out of both of them, and Ichigo let his head fall onto Ishida’s shoulder. Ishida buried his face in Ichigo’s bright hair, breathing deep of the spice, sweat and night-air scent of him. Ichigo rocked in a slow rhythm, letting the friction of skin on skin build until each small movement made Ishida all but sob with need.
“Faster,” he demanded, somewhat muffled as his mouth was occupied with Ichigo’s ear, but clear enough to make Ichigo groan. He complied -- reached between them and took hold of both their cocks, holding them against each other, and thrust harder. Ishida cried out and bucked up into Ichigo’s warm hand.
Ishida let all rational thought go as Ichigo found the right rhythm of strokes and thrusts and each time he pushed forward was harder than the last, shoving Ishida’s back roughly against the tree trunk, but he didn’t care. He was too close now to suggest something else, but next time -- next time, he thought, and Ichigo punctuated it with a thrust as if in promise, oh God, next time -- he wanted Ichigo -- inside him -- wanted --
Too much. Ishida cried out, thumping his head back against the willow and clenching his fists around handfuls of Ichigo’s kimono. The surface tension of the white heat building at the base of his spine broke wide open and he was drowning in the pleasure and coming, hard, over his stomach and Ichigo’s hand, which kept stroking both of them together, milking out the last spasms of Ishida’s release. Ishida could sense Ichigo taking that control and that look of wanton completion on Ishida’s face and drinking it in until, finally, he was stiffening against Ishida and coming, still thrusting haphazardly, muffling Ishida’s broken name over and over against his neck.
And then it was just the two of them, still standing there, and the world hadn’t ended. Ichigo drew long, steadying, open-mouthed breaths against Ishida’s neck, and Ishida closed his eyes and rested his head against Ichigo’s, still quietly reveling in the smell and softness of his hair.
Somehow Ichigo pulled himself away long enough to let them both slide down the tree and onto the carpet of long, thin leaves, which was soft enough for those who didn’t care. The moon was higher and brighter, but the swaying branches of the willow blocked out much of its light, leaving both of them to fill in features and expression from memory when they looked into each other’s faces.
The world may not have ended, but it had certainly changed. Ishida put a hesitant hand to Ichigo’s face, brushing over his sweat-damp cheek and behind one ear, in the familiar tucking movement he used on his own hair, although Ichigo’s was too short for it to make a difference.
“Uryuu,” Ichigo said in a low voice. His brows started to furrow again, his earlier expression fading back into his usual questioning, scowling insecurity. “I...” He stopped, at a loss for words, then shook his head. “How’s your back?” he asked.
“Fine,” Ishida lied, already feeling the scrapes and bruises flowering across his shoulder blades. He cherished the pain for its reality. Otherwise he didn’t know if he could convince himself that he was awake. He touched Ichigo’s forehead, smoothing the drawn brows. “You shouldn’t scowl so much,” he admonished softly.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Ichigo said, and Ishida knew he wasn’t talking about his back.
Ishida couldn’t think of a response to that. Ichigo had hurt him, but mostly only because Ishida let him. If he could go back and do a lot of things over again, Ishida would have chosen not to translate so many of their conversations into pure antagonism. “Why didn’t we do this earlier?” Ishida asked instead, with a small smile.
“Because you were a stubborn bastard,” Ichigo grinned back. “With your Quincy pride so far up your ass --”
Ishida smacked Ichigo on the side of the head, but it didn’t stop either of them from laughing. “You didn’t help,” Ishida retorted, shoving Ichigo again -- not hard, but the other boy fell over anyway, weakened by hysterics. “If you’d stop over-moralizing for two seconds--”
“Shut up!” Ichigo kicked Ishida over so that he fell next to him. He knew Ishida was right, but even as his laughter faded, his smile remained. He let his eyes trail down Ishida’s body and Ishida felt suddenly very conscious of his own semi-nudity.
“I don’t want to go back,” Ichigo said suddenly.
Ishida was confused for a moment. “What -- home?”
“No, just -- well, I don’t know. I miss my family, but I don’t know how to be normal around them anymore.” Ichigo’s smile faded. “I just meant I don’t want to go back to Kuukaku-san’s house. Just for tonight.”
Ishida hesitated, wanting to agree, but... “They’ll wonder where we are.”
“So?” Ichigo looked desperate to break a few rules if it meant not admitting that this moment in time had to end. “We’ll just tell them we slept outside. It’s nice weather. They can’t argue.”
The thought of going to sleep right where he lay was pretty appealing, Ishida had to admit. It was the look on Ichigo’s face that made him cave, though. “All right,” he said.
Ichigo pulled Ishida closer and kissed him, in thanks or just because he wanted to or both, Ishida couldn’t tell. He slid his tongue against Ichigo’s lower lip and into his mouth lazily -- until he felt Ichigo’s hands sliding around his waist and pulled away with a hitched breath of surprise. “Just... getting this off,” Ichigo mumbled, brows drawing down in concentration.
Ishida looked down and saw him fumbling with the knot on his obi. He picked Ichigo’s hands up and moved them away, and deftly untied it himself. “It’s good to know you’re no good at some things,” Ishida taunted softly.
Ichigo snorted and sat up, reaching down to pull Ishida up with him. He pulled Ishida’s forgotten underwear off completely and tossed them and the obi to the side before slipping the yukata over thin shoulders. Ishida shook his arms free the rest of the way and did the same with Ichigo’s kimono.
“Better,” Ichigo murmured, letting his eyes linger on the paper-white scars that stood out against Ishida’s already-pale skin. He leaned in and kissed one on Ishida’s shoulder.
“Ichigo,” Ishida said softly, “why don’t you wear anything under your kimono?”
He felt Ichigo grin against his arm.
Ishida had enough sense to roll up the black and white kimono for a pillow while Ichigo spread his hakama out on the ground. They curled together on top of it, Ishida’s back to Ichigo’s chest and Ichigo’s arms around him. Ichigo reached back behind him and managed to find the yukata with one groping hand, and tossed it over both of them, smoothing it over Ishida’s shoulders before sliding his arm under it again. Ishida couldn’t say anything about the need for direct contact, skin on skin. He laid his own arm over Ichigo’s and curled their fingers together against his stomach.
Ichigo kissed the back of his neck. “You’re never going to answer my question, are you?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“What happened back in Seireitei.”
Ishida sighed and frowned, though Ichigo couldn’t see that. He thought about it, and... no. Now, especially, Ichigo would consider it his duty and obligation to take any metaphorical bullets for Ishida, to not let him fight his own battles. He might make Ichigo see his flaws, but that wasn’t the same as making him change. Ishida didn’t know if he really wanted Ichigo to change, anyway.
“I’ll answer your question when you tell me where the power for your bankai comes from,” he said finally.
Ichigo stiffened behind him.
“Watching you practice -- there was something off. Sometimes when I looked at you I thought I was seeing someone else, just for a second.”
Silence in response.
“Ichigo?”
“Uryuu...” The calm in Ichigo’s voice was forced, and underneath it Ishida could sense the barest hint of fear. For a second, from the hesitation in Ichigo’s voice, Ishida thought a real explanation might be forthcoming -- and if it was, he’d be willing to spill everything about Sensei and the glove and Mayuri-taichou, everything, because Ichigo afraid was never, ever a good thing.
But all Ichigo finally said was, “Fair enough.”
Ishida closed his eyes and let out a controlled breath. Someday he would need to protect Ichigo, and he wouldn’t know how because Ichigo had refused to tell him. And it would be his own fault. Whenever the time came he’d tear himself to shreds over it, he was sure, but... now wasn’t the time. Right now he was tired and sated and Ichigo was warm against him, and he didn’t want to think about tomorrow.
So he squeezed Ichigo’s hand, digging his nails lightly into Ichigo’s palm to tell him that he thought Ichigo was being stupid and that if he weren’t damn tired he’d do something about it, maybe give Ichigo a good yelling-at. Ichigo poked his elbow into Ishida’s side in response, just hard enough to say that he’d fight Ishida tooth and nail on the subject, and besides, he’d have to give Ishida a good yelling-at over his own petty reticence, too. And it might lead to a good all-out fight, added Ichigo’s hand, squeezing Ishida’s hand back a little too hard, or -- Ichigo spread both their hands out flat and slid them down Ishida’s stomach, waist, lower -- it might lead to something else.
Ishida closed his eyes and sighed deeply. “Go to sleep, you horny bastard,” he muttered.
“Fair enough,” Ichigo repeated, shifting to get his other arm bent properly under his head and settling down more comfortably.
“If you kick me,” Ishida mumbled, already drifting off, “I kick back.”
“Just try it,” Ichigo retorted softly, but from the feel of his breathing and his slowing heartbeat, Ishida was already asleep.
Ichigo lay awake for a long time after that, watching Ishida through half-lidded eyes. Finally, with his hand pressed over Ishida’s heart, matching the other boy’s slow breaths, he managed to find better rest that hed’d had in weeks.
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